TO A WILD DEER;

IN THE FOREST OF DALNESS, GLEN-ETIVE, ARGYLESHIRE.

FIT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee!
Magnificent prison enclosing the free!

With rock-wall encircled-with precipice crown'd—
Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound.
'Mid the fern and the heather kind Nature doth keep
One bright spot of green for her favourite's sleep;
And close to that covert, as clear as the skies
When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies
Where the creature at rest can his image behold,
Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold!
How lonesome! how wild! yet the wildness is rife
With the stir of enjoyment-the spirit of life.
The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake,
Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake!
Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings,
And away in the midst of his roundelay springs;
'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than himself,
The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf—

Then starts from his labour, unwearied and gay,
And, circling his antlers, booms far far away.
While high up the mountains, in silence remote,
The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note,
The mellowing echo, on watch in the skies,
Like a voice from the loftier climate replies.
With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast,
There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest!
'Mid the grandeur of Nature, compos'd and serene,
And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene,
He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven,

At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven,

As if in his soul the bold animal smil'd

To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild.
Yes! fierce looks thy nature, e'en hush'd in repose-

In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes.
Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar
With a haughty defiance to come to the war!
No outrage is war to a creature like thee!
The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee,
As thou bearest thy neck on the wings of the wind,
And the laggardly gaze-hound is toiling behind.
In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death,
In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath,—
In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar,—
In the cliff that once trod must be trodden no more,-
Thy trust-'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign!
-But what if the stag on the mountain be slain?
On the brink of the rock-lo! he standeth at bay
Like a victor that falls at the close of the day-
While hunter and hound in their terror retreat
From the death that is spurn'd from his furious feet:
And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies,
As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies.

A FIELD-FLOWER;

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1803.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field,

In

gay

but quick succession shine; Race after race their honours yield, They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moon and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath, and golden broom,
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,

Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultur'd round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page :-In every place,
In every season, fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a Summer reign :-

The Daisy never dies.

MONTGOMERY.

THE VIOLET.

SWEET flower! Springs earliest loveliest gem!
While other flowers are idly sleeping,

Thou rearest thy purple diadem;

Meekly from thy seclusion peeping.

Thou, from thy little secret mound,

Where diamond-dewdrops shine above thee,
Scatterest thy modest fragrance round;
And well may Nature's Poet love thee !

Thine is a short swift reign I know—
But here thy spirit still pervading,
New violet-tufts again shall blow,
Then fade away as thou art fading,

And be renew'd; the hope how bless'd,
O
may that hope desert me never!
Like thee to sleep on Nature's breast
And wake again, and bloom for ever.

BOW RING.

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

STRONG climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stormy gloom is roll'd;
The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling* spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sunflower+ of the Spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain-winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow,

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the lizard seeks the sun,

Here coils, in light, the snake:
And here the fire-tuft § hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.

Oh! then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane !

For oh! I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,

And wakes the earliest bee!

The Hedge-Sparrow.

†The Dandelion.

The Land-newt.

§ The golden-crested Wren.